Blood Moon Page 12

  He eyed Holmes’s bloated, rotting corpse with a mixture of disappointment and disdain. After their conversation about Holmes seeing a girl with powers outside the house, Archard had worried. At first, it seemed insignificant, but then instinct kicked in. When Holmes didn’t answer his follow-up call, Archard had hurried to Plate’s Place.

  He had always doubted the man’s ability to get the job done—no one ever lived up to Archard’s expectations—but he had expected more than this. Anger circulated under his skin like a poison, moving around inside him, threatening to break his control.

  Archard clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes, thinking of the person responsible for ruining his expertly crafted plan. He allowed himself the vision of kicking the corpse several times, an inward pout he wouldn’t act on, if only to save his Prada loafers.

  How did this happen?

  Archard knew Wynter hadn’t been strong enough to do this on her own, so how? Or more importantly, who? Stroking his perfectly shaped goatee, he considered the possibilities. He was certain no one knew of the plan, or of Wynter’s incarceration. If only she had agreed, none of this would have happened. What a mess! Five months he had waited patiently while Holmes made his promises and assurances.

  I indulged him for too long.

  Archard had thought of finding another Earth witch, one that would be easier to break or was willing, but he wanted Wynter. She was the wife of Rowan, the Light Luminary, a man Archard despised on principal. And she and Rowan were trying to revive Ruby Plate’s legacy. Breaking her, making her a part of his Dark Covenant was too tempting, too perfectly vengeful. If not for her misguided righteousness, his Covenant would be complete and the approaching full moon would have sealed their power. More importantly, his power. He would have been the leader of the first complete Dark Covenant since the Dark Ages. He would have succeeded where his ancestors had failed almost eighty years ago.

  If only my grandfather had not failed at his spell. Archard frowned thinking of the mistake that had torn Ruby’s Covenant to shreds, but failed to form a Dark one. His grandfather’s spell had not been strong enough to force Ruby’s granddaughter to join them. After the epic failure, the covens had broken apart, their faith in their Luminary lost. If it had worked, Archard would have inherited his position as Luminary of a Covenant, instead of having to scrape for it.

  He wanted it so badly that he’d do anything—even scrape to the core of the earth. The prestige, the honor, the redemption tempted him more than any seductress ever could. The hunger for power often turned to physical pain, to an ache so powerful it threatened to break him. The pursuit consumed his every living moment.

  I will have this.

  He would get Wynter back and deal with her personally, as he should have in the first place. And to those responsible for her escape, he would deal with them, too.

  With meticulous care, Archard folded his handkerchief, creased the edges, and placed it back in his pocket. Gritting his teeth, he moved to the corpse, stepping carefully. He squatted, wincing at the repellent smell and state of Holmes’s face. He set his jaw and steeled himself for the task ahead. Flexing his right hand, he then touched the tips of his fingers to Holmes’s forehead, doing his best to ignore the cold, slick sensation of decomposition. He closed his eyes and called to the magic, asking for the dead witch’s final memories. The flesh of his hand grew hot, his arm tingled and then the scenes flashed across his mind, one after another, almost too fast to decipher. But it was enough.

  He drew his hand away from the body, wiped it several times with an alcohol wipe before tossing it onto Holmes’s body.

  With the whisper of expensive engineering, the sleek, black vehicle pulled up in front of a stark, modern-style home made of glass and steel in the foothills of Denver. Archard waited for the driver to open the door, and then he stepped out, straightened his suit, and headed for the front door. That, too, was opened for him by his dreary butler. The men exchanged no words, as was their way, but the butler handed Archard a black envelope, which he took with obvious annoyance.

  What now?

  His heeled shoes clacked loudly on the Venetian marble floor as golden-pink as the Caribbean sands polished to a high gloss. He traveled down a long hall, passing expensive pieces of art he never bothered to look at, and turned into his office. He sat behind the low-profile brushed metal desk and opened the letter. Drawn in the middle of a single page was one symbol: a thick black circle bisected by parallel lines.

  Archard stared at the symbol for a moment, and then threw the paper over his shoulder, where it burst into flames and tumbled to the floor in ashes. The covens wished to meet, and although he was their Luminary, if the members called a circle, he had to comply. But he wasn’t ready.

  He wanted more time to think, to find a solution to the Holmes situation. He had to go before them with solutions, not just the two-fold unfortunate news. He had to prove he was in control, or things might fall apart. Too many of his fellow witches would be more than happy to take his place at the first hint of incompetence.

  He had less than two weeks until the next full moon—and not just any full moon, the blood moon. It was the only moon powerful enough for the binding of a Covenant. If he didn’t have things prepared soon, he’d have to wait a whole year. His covens needed two witches, an Earth and a Mind, both vacancies thanks to Holmes incompetency. How would he fill those spaces in such a short time?

  Archard picked up an empty tumbler off his desk and threw it across the room, shattering it against the wall.

  I don’t want to wait a whole year!

  Archard’s emotions always ran hot, with an insatiableness that threatened to burn him from the inside out. If he didn’t keep his Gift of Fire in check, it would control him, overwhelm him. For the most part, he had a handle on his passions. But often, beneath his cool, refined exterior, Archard raged out of control.

  He took a few deep breaths and felt the rage settle. Then he stood, carefully removing his suit coat and draping it over the back of his chair with the reverence such fine material called for. With slender, manicured fingers, he removed his platinum cuff links and rolled up his sleeves.

  He locked the office door.

  At the far end of the room stood a magnificent fireplace. The hearth opened like the mouth of a deep, black cave, and the mantel—made entirely of white volcanic stone—rose six feet off the floor. Archard meticulously placed several logs in the grate and draped them with a few dried bougainvillea vines, portions of the crusty purple flowers flaking off at his feet.

  Right hand extended, he projected magic into the wood and it burst into glorious flame, the last bits of moisture in the vines popping and hissing. He placed one red and two yellow pillar candles on the mantel, held his fingers over them, and snapped his fingers to call fire to the wicks.

  On a tall pedestal, sitting on the flat marble hearth, rested a globe-sized, onyx crystal ball. The flickering yellow light of the fire bounced and refracted off the shiny blackness, illuminating Archard’s face with a nefarious glow. He curved his upper body over the ball, a devious grin pulling at the edges of his lips. Next to the ball sat a long, thin, and wickedly sharp athame. He picked up the ritual knife, ran a finger lovingly over the smooth blade, and then from his pocket, produced one dark chestnut hair collected from the basement.

  With precision he wrapped the long hair around the knife. Chanting under his breath, he held the knife in the roaring fire. “Powerful fire, destroyer of all kind. Burn your way through the weak one’s mind. Show me my heart’s deepest desire, reveal it with the power of fire.”

  The hair turned to ash in seconds, which he took and sprinkled over the crystal ball. In the center of the orb, a pinprick of red light sparked to life, growing steadily until the whole globe burned ruby-red. Archard held his spindly fingers over the ball, heat flowing back and forth between it and his hands, his skin quickly reddening. He repeated the spell three more times.

  The girl who helped Wynter escape
—she was his path to find them all. He simply had to break into her untrained, unprotected mind. Then, he could steal all the information he needed. Because she was untrained, she wouldn’t know what was going on or who it was; she wouldn’t warn Wynter he was coming. It was foolproof.

  Laboriously, he pushed his way into the girl’s mind, images popping up in the ball. Wynter and Rowan had protected their home, but the mind needed extra protection and they had failed to provide it for the girl.

  Archard resisted the urge to brush away a bead of sweat making a path to his eye.

  The girl’s scream echoed through his head, sending waves of pleasure down his spine.

  Chapter 17

  Waxing Crescent

  Present Day, October

  Simon sat on the bed in the guest room. Willa had clicked on a small lamp by the bedside, its weak light pooled on the red comforter. He looked around the small, simple room. There was a desk with several stacks of books, the cozy double bed and a large window to his right. Out the window, the dark forest slept. He stared at his reflection in the surface of the glass, his mind a jumble of thoughts.

  I’m a witch. Willa is a witch.

  It was hard for him to settle on that explanation, to move past all the fictional characters and Halloween stories to make being a witch a real thing. Something he was. It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe it or didn’t want to learn more about his gifts—he wanted that more than ever, after what Wynter had said—it was just hard to step around his logic and create a new self-identity that involved magic. A term he had never used to define his abilities.

  Magic.

  Life had changed, but exactly how much? What about his classes on Monday? He couldn’t miss more than a few classes or he’d have to repeat, and that would put him behind on his track to medical school.

  And there was also his job at the diner. He had a shift in—he pulled out his phone and checked the time—three hours. Man, it’s three o’clock in the morning. Feeling more tired than he had a minute before, he quickly texted the manager and lied about having food poisoning.

  Wynter had said they were in danger, and, from what she’d said about Holmes and Archard, it sounded serious. But how long would they be in danger? How much was this going to screw up his and Willa’s lives? He sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

  When Willa returned from the bathroom, he sat up and opened his arms to her. She sat on his knee and he held her tight. “What are we doing, Willa?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “We can’t stay here long. We gotta get back to Twelve Acres.”

  “I know,” she said, looking down and fidgeting with his shirt. “But I feel trapped. We can’t just leave. I want to know more about this witch stuff. Also, it might not be safe in Twelve Acres. What if this Archard comes after us for interfering? He sounds scary.”

  Simon nodded. “Yeah, I’m not sure what to do about that. But Archard is Wynter and Rowan’s enemy, not ours. Maybe they can help us make a clean break. We can’t get involved any more than we already are. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Simon stretched his neck forward and kissed her. In an attempt to lighten the mood—he hated to sense her worry—he said, “But hey, at least I get to sleep next to you tonight, or this morning, whenever we actually get to go to sleep.”

  Willa laughed. “Good point. I think I will enjoy that very much.” She kissed him slowly and he pulled her body firmly against his.

  A knock at the door. “Willa, Simon? Food is ready,” Wynter called through the door.

  Willa smiled at Simon. “Coming!”

  The cozy kitchen with lightly stained knotty alder cabinets and white marble counter tops was tucked at the back of the house. A farmhouse table with benches sat parallel to a large picture window. A huge bouquet of white peonies and steaming bowls of delicious risotto with chicken and arugula waited on the table. Willa hadn’t realized exactly how hungry she was until the smell of garlic and bread hit her nose. Salivating, she took a seat at one of the bowls and inhaled its fabulous smell.

  Rowan smiled at her. He wore a pair of black fleece pants and a gray T-shirt; he’d obviously been sleeping when they’d arrived. Willa instantly liked him. There was something trustworthy about his soft, blue eyes and Scottish accent. “Dig in,” he said. “There’s warm bread there in the basket and I’ll grab you both a cold soda.” Willa took her first bite and closed her eyes, the flavors melting on her tongue.

  Rowan set two sodas out for them and poured himself and Wynter a glass of white wine. Wynter had begun to eat. “Sun and moon, I’ve missed good food,” she said between bites.

  Willa smiled and dunked a chunk of bread into her bowl. For a moment she forgot about the looming, unknown future and felt content, at ease. Wynter and Rowan felt like old friends, despite the craziness of the situation.

  Wynter pushed away her bowl and sat back. “Oh, I’m stuffed.” She grinned and sipped at her wine. “So let’s see—where were we?” She took another sip. “Rowan and I met about fifteen years ago in Scotland while studying the ways of the ancient shamans. One day, in a dark corner of an old library, we literally ran into each other, blinded by the stacks of books in our arms. In a dizzy pile of books and heated magic, we knew we belonged to each other.”

  “That’s kind of what happened to Simon and me,” Willa injected. “We met at the diner where we work and the first time there was all this heat. We were pulled to each other. Was that the magic?”

  “Yes. All those things you felt were what it feels like to find your soul mate, your partner in the magic. Wonderful, isn’t it?” Willa smiled and Wynter went on. “When we had recovered from those first moments, we found a stray piece of paper in the rubble of all the books we’d been carrying. It’d obviously been ripped from a book and randomly tucked inside another.

  “The page was old and tattered, and when I read it, I read for the first time about a Covenant. Of how it is formed and the magic involved. Magic practically dripped from that page and we knew it was our destiny to try to form a Covenant. But it turned out to be a very rocky path.” Wynter looked to Rowan, passing on the story.

  “That one small page was all we had, so first we had to discover more about the Covenant,” Rowan took over. “It wasn’t easy. The spells and information have been well protected over the years, only shared with a select few. After much research we were able to track down the only living witch who had been a part of a Covenant. She was in Italy and quite old and ailing, but agreed, after much persuasion, to talk with us.” Rowan paused to sip his own wine. “She wasn’t comfortable sharing many details, but after several visits, just before her death she gave us a grimoire. . . .”

  “Sorry,” Simon interrupted, “what’s a grimoire?”

  “Oh, of course,” Rowan said with a smile. “It’s a witch’s spell book, a journal to record all magical activity, spells, and such things. They are extremely important, being passed down through generations. All magical knowledge is contained in grimoires.”

  Wynter cut in, “This particular grimoire changed our lives. Camille was very reluctant to hand it over, warning us many times about the risks of forming a Covenant, but I think she also understood the importance of trying.”

  Willa sat forward. Camille? Could it be the same Camille? It was a long shot. “What was Camille’s last name?”

  “Krance. Camille Krance,” Wynter answered.

  Willa gasped. “You’ve got to be kidding me? The same Camille Krance who was an original settler in Twelve Acres, one of the founders?”

  “The exact same one.”

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Willa turned to Simon. “She’s Solace’s mother.”

  “Whoa,” Simon said. “Small world.”

  Rowan said, “The witch world is very small. Who is Solace?”

  “Solace is a ghost at the Twelve Acres Museum, where I volunteer. We are best friends, as weird as that may sound.” An ache rose in her gut as she
thought of her friend, alone now and hating her for leaving. Willa wished she could call or text her, try to smooth things over.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Wynter said. “Solace’s name is in some of Camille’s personal grimoires. She gave us a few of those as well. But let me tell you about the most important grimoire.” Wynter’s eyes pierced Willa’s. “The one that belonged to Ruby Plate.”

  Willa’s jaw dropped and her pulse quickened. “Really?”

  “Yes. Hold on, I’ll go get it for you.” Wynter jumped up from the table and hurried out of the room.

  Rowan stood to clear the table. “Would you like anything else?’

  “No, thank you, Rowan. It was delicious.” Anxious to learn more, Willa asked, “If it’s Ruby’s grimoire, does that mean she formed a Covenant?”

  Rowan sat back down and leaned his arms on the table. “Yes, that’s right. Ruby Plate was the last Luminary, or leader, of a Light Covenant. She was a stellar woman, as you probably know. Her grimoire contains all the details of how to form a Covenant.”

  The thrill of discovery zinged in Willa’s head. This was the secret of her town, the answer to the mystery of the note in the candlestick. Ruby and the town founders had formed a Covenant; they’d all been witches. Willa desperately wished she could tell Solace.

  Simon touched her hand. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, this is just so incredible. I knew there was something about Ruby and the town founders. I never thought it would be this.”

  Wynter came back into the room, carrying a large tome in her arms. She set it reverently in front of Willa. “Feel that?” she whispered.

  “Oh, my gosh! Yes!” Willa inhaled deeply as a swell of warmth moved over her face. The book was large, like an old bible, and bound in rust colored leather, worn silky by time and the touch of hands. On the cover was a large gold embossment of a weeping willow. “The magic? Even this book has magic.”